Author's Note: Gawd, it's nice to get back to my favorite boys! After basically drowning myself in X-Men Fanfiction for the past month, it was so weird to find myself perusing some Reid, and then some Peter . . . but in a nice way. And I realized that I wanted to write a little something-something for the two.

I dunno why, but graduation has been on my mind a lot lately . . . The baby brother nears the end of his stint in high school, and one of my best friends is within arm's reach of her degree . . . Meh. Things and stuff, I guess. Anyhoo, that's why this fic; I didn't feel like writing them as adults again yet, and I feel like the two deserve some nice moments after all the hell I put them through in "Time." *Smiles* Though this one won't be NEARLY as long; I'm thinking two or three chapters, max. I just finally re-saw the episode of Heroes that talked about the night Peter graduated college, and I real wanted to give him some happiness on that night, considering everything that happens later that same evening . . . *Shivers*

Okay, okay, enough babbling. Here we go!

Warnings: There will eventually be a reference to Criminal Minds episode "L.D.S.K.," but it'll be brief, and near the end of the fic. Otherwise, this whole shebang takes place before either of the shows' real relevance, and is a total AU from the twisted depths of my mind. *Grins evilly*

Disclaimers: Potentially, I could write a fanfic where I own Peter and Spencer . . . Hmmm. Oh, but in real life? Nada, zip, zilch . . . NOPE.

I solemnly refuse to ask for reviews. That's your job. Psssht.

Do enjoy.

"Some of us laugh. Some of us cry.

Some of us smoke. Some of us lie.

But it's all just a way we cope with out lives."

– Starsailor, "Some Of Us"

Flashbulbs were popping and going off, blinding in their bright blinking and completely hindering the senses when mixed with the thunderous sound of over 4,000 people clapping, screaming, whooping, cheering, crying, and celebrating as the relatively small class of 2006 filed into the auditorium.

Maybe it was that Peter had been around crowds so much lately (ever since Nathan had formally announced his plan to campaign for Congress in the next election, the entire Petrelli family had been dogged by a relentless flood of reporters and spectators), or maybe it was that he was too excited on this long-awaited and hard-earned most prosperous of afternoons. Or maybe it was even that beer that he and a few of his closest New York friends had had in a pre-party toast to their upcoming freedom (or maybe it could have been that second drink, or the third . . . ) – but, for whatever reason, the young man walking briskly in his new cap and gown was hardly a bundle of nerves as he approached the bleachers where the graduates had been assigned to sit. In fact, taking his seat, the last-born of the Petrelli boys was positively quivering with excitement, unable to keep a cheek-splitting grin off of his face as he scanned the immense crowd.

There they were.

His mother looked as put-together as always, hair sleek and neatly parted down the middle, outfit color-coordinated and wrinkle-free, and posture pin-straight and perfect as she stood poised and dignified next to his exhausted-looking father. Peter was grateful that his dad had managed to come at all, given the recent heart-attack that his mother told him the man had suffered. But Angela Petrelli had reported that they were moving along just fine, steadily getting back on their feet, and assuring him not to worry so much about it. So, Peter didn't – but he still smiled as he looked past his proud parents to the other two seats held reserved for the evening.

One of them remained empty and still, save the small red piece of cardstock pinned to the seat to show that it had been saved for a guest. And even though it was being cut awful close, Peter wasn't worried about Nate's no-show.

His brother had promised that he would be at the ceremony – he just had to finish a meeting with his congressional advisory committee, and then he'd be sitting in his folding chair in time to watch Peter collect his diploma.

So Peter didn't concern himself with it. He wouldn't.

Nate had promised.

All the same, he couldn't help but feel a surge of happiness when his eyes moved to the next seat in the row – an aisle-seat, and the last one he'd had set aside for the evening. And the only other one that was occupied with someone that he had personally extended an invitation to.

Spencer Reid was clearly uncomfortable being surrounded by so many people – his arms were folded protectively across his chest, and he looked to be trying to shrink into the heavy blazer he was wearing. But he was there, nonetheless, having had to use a sick day at work and spend almost two hours on the train to get to the ceremony. But that was the kind of person that Reid was, and Peter appreciated that as he reflected on how lucky he was to have this friend – this brother – by his side on this day; so far, it was one of the most important ones in his life.

Seeming to sense the eyes on him, Reid looked up from his lap, caught Peter's eyes, and grinned cheekily.

Peter laughed at the unusual expression on his face, and bent his hand, twisting the thumb and pinkie outwards, raising the "telephone" symbol up to where his oldest friend could see it.

Up in the stands, Spencer caught their long-established sign for "we need to talk," and nodded eagerly to show he understood, still smiling.

Just then, an older man with a gray ponytail, small square spectacles, and a tweed jacket so ugly that not even Reid would have worn it stepped up to the lectern and, tapping the microphone, cleared his throat, patiently waiting for the audience to settle down before his gravely voice began to echo across the speaker system.

"Ladies, gentlemen, graduates, and esteemed guests, . . . we are all in attendance on this night to recognize and congratulate another fine group of students . . . "

Peter gradually tuned Professor Dixon out, choosing instead to scan the crowd of his classmates surrounding him, studying their faces and tones.

Some, like his roommate Thomas, looked excited (and possibly a little bit stoned . . .). Others, like his ex-girlfriend Valerie, were trembling with nerves, seemingly overwhelmed by the official symbolic act of this graduation releasing them into the big, scary world as declared adults.

But most of them wore masks, their faces blank canvases of expressionlessness as they sat stiff and upright and formal, listening to their chosen class speaker voice his praise over their accomplishments of the last few years. They didn't seem eager, or scared, or anything at all – they looked as if, to them, this was just another evening on which they were wearing something hot and uncomfortable and surrounded by people that they barely knew and liked even less.

Peter wondered what his own face looked like . . .

He heard all of the people around him clapping, and he snapped out of his self-gazing and reverie long enough to join in hastily, realizing that his class's valedictorian, Christine Long, was being called up to make her speech.

Peter barely watched as the beautiful blonde made her way towards the podium, and, after a brief pause, began to speak. He let the words wash over him as his eyes and mind drifted once more to musing over this day . . .

Nathan had been the valedictorian of his class, of course. Of course. Nathan was always the best at everything, and college had been no different. Mrs. Petrelli had pushed Peter to be at the top of his class, too – to make her proud . . . but, even though he tried (and he really had tried), Peter had never been as fond of school as his older brother – or his other brother from another mother, come to think of it, . . . It was only because of late-night study sessions and essay-writing help from Spencer and a lot of cheer-leading from both Reid and occasionally Nathan that he'd been able to get his degree in Hospice and Nursing in just five years – it was something that Peter never thought he'd be able to do, let alone in less than a decade.

But here he was, sitting and graduating and about to begin his work life of helping people who needed it – just like he had always wanted.

It, like Peter, was hardly perfect.

But it was enough – it was his.

Thinking on the last few years – on the parties he hadn't been invited to and crashed anyway, on the many beautiful girls and even more many stolen kisses, on the late-night deep talks, early-morning earnest ones, and evening scholarly ones – Peter wondered if he'd miss this, all of this, when it was gone. When he woke up tomorrow morning, how would he feel?

It'll be different, Peter knew. Obviously. But great. Hopefully.

Peter would settle for "good." But he wanted great. To be a great person living a great life doing great things. Like Spencer was, working with the FBI to save lives and put away the bad guys. Or Nathan, lobbying and trying to incite change for the good American people.

That was what Peter wanted, what he longed for.

The young man's reflections tumbled out of his head as his still-scanning eyes landed once more on his family.

God, his father was crying.

Arthur Petrelli, crying? Peter thought in wonder. His father, the man who couldn't be bothered to call off work early enough to show up on time for his honeymoon. His father, who hadn't made it to numerous parties and ceremonies over the years, always claiming that he was too tired or too busy. His father, Arthur Petrelli, who didn't even have a picture of his family on his desk at the office . . . but this was making the old man sentimental?

Peter bit back the urge to run up and wrap his arms around his dad, instead contenting himself with a minimal smile and an acknowledging nod to his mother – who, he was shocked to find, was also sniffling a bit, trying to keep her makeup from running.

While touched by the sight of his parents so apparently moved on this grand day, Peter didn't feel comfortable invading in one the obviously private moment, and turned. Once again, the young man found himself gazing at the seat that sat next to his best friend.

The empty seat that sat next to his best friend.

Peter held back his sigh of disappointment, but, somehow, his feelings must have shown on his face – or maybe it was just all of that fancy-new profiling training that gave it away – because Spencer winced slightly, and looked at the unoccupied chair next to him. The other man turned back to Peter, shook his head, and, forcing a smile, mouthed "soon," with a determined nod.

Peter struggled to cover his disappointment with a shrug, as if to say that it was really no big deal, none at all, and turned back to face the front stage, feeling his friend's worried gaze on his back for several minutes before he began to breath normally, calming down and, as Spencer often urged him to, letting logic take over.

Nathan loved him, and he'd never want to hurt him, Peter knew. He's just busy . . . Congress . . . that's a big deal – no, a huge deal. Of course it's going to keep him busy. But he'll be here.

He promised.

Vowing not to look up at the stands again, Peter focused more intently on Christine, listening to her words of goodbye, and soon finding himself as lost in the speech as the rest of the audience appeared to be. He was nodding along, smiling, and even wincing just the tiniest bit as their valedictorian talked about their triumphs, private jokes, secret trysts, their burning desires, their hopes, their dreams . . .

Peter's feeling roller-coastered up and down, as he remembered everything of these last few precious years . . . so many "first times," a few fewer "last times," and entirely too many "I shouldn't have's . . ."

But it was all over, now.

Now, he was a man. And a man had to seize life.

He was ready.

The people around him were standing up then, and Peter quickly jumped to his feet. Slowly, one by one, interrupted frequently by loud bouts of whistling and clapping from the audience, the names of his classmates were called up, and Peter watched absentmindedly as the people he had come to know over the last half-decade treaded up those small wooden steps and collected their diplomas. With each name spoken, with each step closer to his future – his destiny – Peter made another promise to himself.

"Adam Noah Levine."

I promise to live right next to the park – on my own, by myself, independent, and free.

"Christine Marie-Katherine Long."

I promise to help Nate as much as I am able.

"Cillian Daniel Murphy."

I promise to take care of every one of my patients – to make them smile and laugh and sleep and dream.

"James Joseph Parsons."

I promise to be strong, and to do the right things that I can.

"Paulette Gwendolyn Perrette."

I promise to tell Simone –

"Peter Maximilian Petrelli."

His legs were Jell-O, his mind was a haze . . . but, somehow, Peter managed to stumble up to the stage without actually tripping on his long gown. Somehow, he managed to ascend the water-stained old stairs to the exact same beat as "Pomp and Circumstance." Somehow, he managed to shake the college superintendent's hands, and somehow, he managed to smile warmly when the man leaned in close and whispered, "I hope that you have the best luck, Peter – you deserve more than good."

Then, somehow, he managed to get a grip on his diploma without dropping it, and, somehow, he managed to turn slightly and flash a winning grin before, somehow, he managed to calmly amble off of the stage and begin the much-shorter-than-before walk to his seat, briefly brushing shoulders with Rebecca Rone as she high-heeled it towards her own fate onstage.

And, somehow, Peter kept smiling for the rest of the ceremony – through the rest of the long list of names, through the playing of their Senior Song ("Move Along," by the All-American Rejects), and, at last, at long last, the tossing of the caps, which was only slightly overshadowed by the overjoyed screaming of his 600 or so fellow students as they let loose with their hats and tried to drown out one another, their parents, and even their small and persistent fears by bellowing about how they were free.

Somehow, Peter's cheeky grin never slipped, even though, when he looked up at where his family had been sitting, it was to have his gaze met by only three pairs of eyes, and one glaringly empty seat – a small piece of red cardstock still clinging pitifully to the cushion.

As Peter watched, the paper fell away, fluttering slowly towards the ground, where it settled for just a second before being crushed by an onslaught of whooping, cheering members of the class of 2006.